Bear with me. In the past few weeks I: experienced my first open-mike “poetry night” at a local nightclub, something from which I may never fully recuperate and which has likely rendered me unable to view the world in the same light again, as it was like staring into the very face of Armageddon; sat on a golf course with the lead singer of one of the most successful pop music groups in the world; squatted down at the duck palace on the Peabody’s Plantation Rooftop with a very large professional athlete who made quacking sounds in Greek while trying to communicate with one of the famed Peabody ducks (cute, cute, cute); spent many hours in a nursing home, including four that were taken up listening to someone who knew not where she was and talked about her family’s history in the context of how it related to cornbread; ate at a restaurant in Cordova; sat in a parking lot with the police for three hours in the middle of the night (we were the victims, not perpetrators, just to set that one straight); and drove within yards of the entrance to Bellevue Baptist Church on a Sunday morning with the parking lot filled with a sea of cars, at which point my own car’s front wheels lifted off the ground while the back wheels increased to maximum speed (a wheelie burning rubber for those of you from Parkway Village), as the entire car began to spin in circles and finally exploded (well, not really, but it felt that way). It was quite harrowing, actually, especially when I passed the section of the compound that I thought was their own golf course. I kept looking for the airplane landing strip, but it must have been hidden somewhere out of sight. Man, that place is big. And scary. But to each his own. It takes all kinds to make the world interesting. And there really must be herd control, lest the populace-at-large becomes even more frightened of life, and therefore more crazy. So go. Go out into the world and do what you must to muddle through life without going totally nuts. I’ve obviously passed that threshold.


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